More Letters To People

You tell 'em, Mexico.

As you may recall, I periodically run across people in my life who, in my opinion, could benefit from a nice long fireside chat with yours truly, but seldom have the time or ability to tell them what’s on my mind. It’s my last night in Portland before I begin the two-week long hazing marathon otherwise known as Oregon Marching Band camp, therefore I figure I should nip some of these loose ends in the bud while I still can.

To Everyone Who Thought I Was Going To Keep Doing Video Updates
Aww. You actually thought I was going to keep going to the effort of reading, shooting, and editing my blogs with music? That is adorable. Really, though, I do appreciate your optimism, but I’m not the sort of guy who does a regular video blog, because a regular video blog is impossible to do well, unless you’re zefrank or have tits. For one thing, it is, as I’ve said, a lot of work, and between 16 credits, a marching band, a newspaper column, and my own TV show, I doubt I’ll even have time to go to the bathroom on a regular basis, much less add more steps to the completion of my blog. Also, despite the fact that I’m devastatingly handsome and have a voice that makes statues weep tears of bacon, I think I come across better in text than on video. The highly tangential nature of my work doesn’t lend itself well to being read in front of a camera, and I’m not ready to sacrifice my tried and true routine in favor of a cheap gimmick until the cheap gimmick actually becomes easier than what I usually do. That being said, I may sprinkle in a video update here or there in the future when I deem the subject matter worthy of a cheap gimmick to distract from poor scripting.

To Sarah Palin
Miss, I am sick and tired of you and the disgusting lies your Republican cronies on all the major news networks are cramming down our throats. It’s an absolute insult to the electoral process and I won’t stand for it any longer – you are not all that cute. Alright? You are not a VPCILF (Vice Presidential Candidate I’d Like To…). I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks so, I’m just the only one with the steel cajones to come out and say it. Sure, you’re better looking than Chester Arthur and Dick Cheney, but so is Steve Buscemi. You want to know what a hot woman in politics looks like? She looks like Elizabeth Kucinich. Yeah, that’s right, she’s married to Dennis Kucinich, who, if Congress were Lord of the Rings, would be Gimli, both for his political tenacity and for the fact that he’s small enough to sleep in a violin case. Had he won the nomination and the election, his wife would have become a royal FLILF (First Lady I’d Like To…). So when people wax on about which female political figure is the cutest, I will always be forced to compare their choice to the leggy 31-year-old redhead from Cleveland. Sure, she may not hold an actual political title, and sure, she may not be a hockey mom/pit bull, but I don’t care – she’s a hopeful reminder that sometimes even total foxes will get desperate and marry a guy for his zany philosophies instead of his looks.

To Chris Summers, Kicker For Purdue University’s Football Team
Hey there. So, I don’t know if you noticed, but yesterday your football team lost to the Oregon Ducks in double overtime, an instance that could have been avoided had two of your attempted field goal kicks not missed the goalposts. Now, let me be the first to say that I’m not mad about what happened – mainly because I go to the University of Oregon, and I’m really happy that I got to watch us win in double overtime. Also, you shouldn’t feel bad about it; the loss yesterday wasn’t a result of just your mistakes, but the mistakes of the whole team. That being said, from the looks of things on TV, your fellow students at Purdue don’t share in my feelings, and it may be a very long time until you once again know the gentle warmth of a woman’s embrace. I’m just here to tell you that, as time goes on, the loneliness won’t bother you as much. I find that it’s best to channel the frustration caused by lack of female companionship into creative pursuits, like drawing, or knitting, or a blog. Sure, the pleasant memories of days gone by may drift through your subconscious, causing you to wake up crying in the middle of the night, but in time you’ll learn to love these late night breakdowns. If all else fails, I’m sure there are plenty of Oregon fans willing to bang you.

To Reader’s Digest
Stop trying to scam my grandmother with your nickel-and-diming “Book Of The Month Club” pyramid schemes and subscription based lottery sweepstakes, or I’m going to start using your Business Reply Mail envelopes to mail you bricks and bags full of washers that you’ll have to foot the bill for. You’re a bunch of fucking crooks, Reader’s Digest.

To People Who Spontaneously Dance In Crowded Restaurants
I’ve dealt with this both at Carl’s and Bella Fresca, and I have a shocking revelation for you: We, the wait staff, do not think you are cute and free spirited. When you see us piling up nearby and watching you twirling your girlfriend around in all her low rider jeaned, muffin-topped glory, we are not thinking, “Wow! This guy is teaching his girlfriend to tango in the middle of a fast food restaurant! He’s so fearless and silly!” We are all wondering how much longer you’re going to try to be the center of the attention of the entire restaurant, how much longer you’re going to try to live out your fantasy of being the male lead in a quirky romantic comedy starring Reese Witherspoon and featuring the new hit single by Faith Hill, how much longer we have to watch you two hornily stumble around and prevent us from doing our jobs.

To The Heavily Botoxed Woman In Bella Fresca Last Night
Hi there. Do you remember me? You were pretty drunk last night, and you’re also profoundly stupid, but if you search through your memory banks you might just recall some blurry visions of a guy with poofy hair in a black apron and polo shirt, standing by your table while you blathered and dickered at him. Allow me to explain. I have worked at Bella Fresca for some two and a half months, and I have seen all sorts of nights. I’ve seen slow nights, and I’ve seen busy nights. However, last night, my final night at Bella Fresca for the summer, was arguably the busiest night in the history of fine dining – you might have noticed that every table was full, that my superiors were barking orders at me like sergeants in a war movie, that water glasses were empty and tables needed to be bussed and Cthulhu himself had risen from R’lyeh and was actively harvesting motherfucking souls. However, despite all of this, when I attempted to pick up your plate with two bites of pasta left on it, you said, “Ooh, no, actually, I think I’m still eating that.” When I set it down and started to step away, you chirped, “Actually, nevermind – I’m finished!” I stepped back to the table to pick it up, but no sooner had my hand touched ceramic than you were saying, “No, nevermind, I do want to finish.” And then, as I walked away, you called me back and asked, in a roundabout fashion that took a solid 15 years, if I could put your four ounces of penne into a box for you to take home. Let me just say this: I can tell from your bleached blonde hair and your stretched, pseudo-plastic 52 year old features that you have spent tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars in an attempt to convince men my age to sleep with you. As a man my age, let me say this: It’s not going to happen. Honestly, if you want all that plastic surgery to start paying for itself, you’d best head to Purdue University and look for their kicker.

Truman Capps feels manlier and manlier every time he says double overtime, for it is one of the 4 sporting terms that he learned without Wikipedia.